“Of course I know,” he taunted. He pointed to his dripping garments. “Do you know where I've been? In the street, placing my men. I have this house surrounded. I am going to walk down those stairs with this young lady. If you try to stop me I have only to blow my police-whistle——”
“And I will blow your brains out!” interrupted the Jew. It was a most unsatisfactory climax.
“You have not been in the street,” said Prothero. “You are wet because you hung out of your window signalling to your friend. Do you know why he did not answer your second signal? Because he is lying in an area, with a knife in him!”
“You lie!” cried Ford.
“YOU lie,” retorted the Jew quietly, “when you say your men surround this house. You are alone. You are NOT in the police service, you are a busybody meddling with men who think as little of killing you as they did of killing your friend. My servant was placed to watch your window, saw your signal, reported to me. And I found your assistant and threw him into an area, with a knife in him!”
Ford felt the story was untrue. Prothero was trying to frighten him. Out of pure bravado no sane man would boast of murder. But—and at the thought Ford felt a touch of real fear—was the man sane? It was a most unpleasant contingency. Between a fight with an angry man and an insane man the difference was appreciable. From this new view-point Ford regarded his adversary with increased wariness; he watched him as he would a mad dog. He regretted extremely he had not brought his revolver.
With his automatic pistol still covering Ford, Prothero spoke to Pearsall.
“I found him,” he recited, as though testing the story he would tell later, “prowling through my house at night. Mistaking him for a burglar, I killed him. The kitchen window will be found open, with the lock broken, showing how he gained an entrance. Why not?” he demanded.
“Because,” protested Pearsall, in terror, “the man outside will tell——”
Ford shouted in genuine relief.